What happened was relentlessly and excruciatingly dull: I lay in a hospital bed and hurt.
My ribs hurt, my brain hurt, my thoughts hurt, and they did not let me go home for eight days.
At first, they figured me for an alcoholic—that I’d gone for the hand sanitizer because I was so desperate for a drink.
The truth was so much weirder and less rational that nobody really seemed to buy it until they contacted Dr. Singh.
When she arrived at the hospital, she pulled a chair up to the edge of my bed.
“Two things happened,” she said. “First, you’re not taking your medication as prescribed.”
I told her I’d taken it almost every day, which felt true, but wasn’t.
“I felt like it was making me worse,” I eventually confessed.
“Aza, you’re an intelligent young woman.
Surely you don’t think drinking hand sanitizer while hospitalized for a lacerated liver marks forward progress in your mental health journey.”
I just stared at her.
“As I’m sure they explained to you, drinking hand sanitizer is dangerous—not only because of the alcohol,
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